Courtesan (27 page)

One of the Papal guards, who held a long jeweled halberd, ushered the group from the grand salon into a cavernous dining hall. But Henri could not move. He watched the Pope kiss Catherine and take her arm as they walked from the room. His heart sank. As Montmorency turned to join the others, Henri gripped his shoulder.

“Please, Monty. . .
mon vieux,
” he whispered urgently. “I beg you, find me a way out of this!”

Montmorency turned and faced the pained expression that he had seen so often on Henri’s face. “I am sorry, my son, there is nothing more that I can do.”

“I
N NOMINE
P
ATRIS
, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. . .”

Great fingers of light through the massive stained-glass windows washed the nave of the cathedral with muted colors as Henri and Catherine prepared to take their final vows. Diane daubed the perspiration from her brow with a blue silk handkerchief as she watched the tiny girl in the magnificent gown of white and gold brocade. The gown was accented with the jeweled portion of her dowry for France. Her waist was belted in gold with eight large balas rubies set off by a diamond in the center. At her throat she wore a string of eighty pearls and a pendant set with large diamonds, emeralds and rubies. Her short fingers were covered with rubies, diamonds and gold.

Diane gazed through the glitter at the plain little face; the dark eyebrows and the large nose. A pang of regret rose from her heart. She tried to quiet it. She felt a trickle of sweat between her breasts beneath the layers of heavy damask. Then she shivered. It would soon be over. She had only to bear a few more moments. She steadied herself with a hand on the back of the pew before her as Henri and Catherine turned, and knelt on two silver priedieux at the altar.

The Pope gave the nuptial benediction himself, bestowing greater solemnity to the event. He blessed the golden ring and held it up to the Lord. Diane made herself watch as Henri slipped it onto the girl’s finger. The Pope was then helped to one side, owing to his ill health. But he beamed broadly through his long beard as the Cardinal de Tournon said the final portion of the Mass. He then raised his hand to make the sign of the cross and announced that by God’s holy ordinance, Henri de Valois and Catherine de Medici were man and wife.

T
HE
K
ING AND THE
P
OPE
walked arm in arm, and whispered to one another as they led the new couple and a collection of drunken courtiers up the sweeping stone staircase. There was no choice left to either the bride or the groom; the two elders were anxious to see the union consummated and now led the pathway to that ultimate end. Behind them came Queen Eleanora, François’ Spanish wife; the Dauphin, Montmorency, Admiral Chabot and the Cardinal de Lorraine as though it were a party. The air was thick from so many bodies pressed so closely together in the stairwell, and Henri felt as if he would choke. But his thoughts were arrested when the entire procession came to a halt at his apartment doors.

As he stopped, Henri was forced to face the King. François planted his arms firmly on Henri’s shoulders. It was a sign between gentlemen signaling that the other must now engage in his duty, no matter how distasteful. He swiftly pulled his son to him and kissed each cheek. He then took Catherine’s trembling hand in his own, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.

“Madame La Duchesse,” he began, “tonight you become a permanent part of this house, and nothing shall please Us more than when you are fat with Our first grandchild!”

The crowd, who had long since abandoned decorum, peeled with laughter and whistles. The King and the Pope exchanged a sideways grin. Clement patted the King’s back. Henri glared at the two men who had conspired to ruin his life, and he watched as Clement kissed his niece. He then made the sign of the cross before them.

“Now, my children,” he said in slurred French, “to your jousting!”

Glad to be free of the callous Court, Henri took Catherine’s small, moist hand and led her into his apartments. There, the Cardinal de Lorraine blessed the nuptial couch as Ippolito de Medici swung a smoking censer past the bedcurtains, filling the room with hallowed incense. Beside the bed, Catherine’s attendants waited to undress her.

“Go with your ladies,” he instructed. “I shall join you shortly.”

“As you wish,” she replied and followed her aunt and her cousin into the dressing room.

When they had gone, Henri turned to his boyhood friend with frantic eyes. “Brissac, please, has there been any word or any message from Madame de Poitiers? Anything at all?”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. I inquired as you requested and I was told that she left the banquet shortly after your departure. I am bound by honesty to tell you that she left with Jacques de Montgommery.”

“Damn her!”

Henri took a deep breath and blew it out, as though trying to recover from a blow.

“So be it. Help me out of this thing, will you. If it is jousting they want then, by God, it is jousting they shall have!”

C
LEMENT, A PACE BEHIND
François
,
lumbered back down the long staircase toward the sound of the music and laughter in the large grand salon. The festivities were still active despite the presence of the first blush of sun that had begun to ascend through the long casement windows. When the King entered the hall he grabbed a spilled silver goblet from one of the long tables and banged it against the wall to gain attention. The noise ceased. The musicians stopped playing.

“We are most pleased to announce,” he began, in a deep, ceremonial tone, “that we have gone together to ensure the consummation of the marriage between Our new daughter and the son of France.”

“And we have come back to report,” the Pope continued for him, “that the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans jousted valiantly!”

Shouts and cheers of laughter rose from the throngs of remaining drunken nobles who sat sprawled among the lavish furnishings. Pope Clement raised an empty chalice that he too had taken from the table.

“May Almighty God bless them both now, and may my niece be with child before I take my leave from France!”

In a corner, Diane sat alone sipping a cordial, trying in vain to numb herself. She had left Jacques at the door to his apartments. She had said she would be only a moment, promising to return to him. But she had wanted to hear it; needed to hear that it was really done between them.

Diane had returned to the banquet hall, not expecting the news to pierce her the way that it had. She let the pain pass through her, and then managed to smile. She had served her purpose well. She had helped a shy young Prince into manhood; readied him for a wife. Someday he would take her aside and thank her for having known when to walk away. He had said he loved her, but what could he know of love when he was so filled with the aimless ardor of adolescence? It would have been easy to confuse the two. Her only regret, now that it was over between them, was that for a moment, she too had allowed herself to forget how to distinguish between love and desire.

T
HE MORNING DEW
on the leaded windowpane blew across Henri’s cheek with a gust of the salty ocean breeze. His eyes opened and he was with Diane. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his. He moved to touch her. Then he remembered. Outside, the sound of horses, their hooves on cobbled stones, the shouts of the stable masters woke him from dazed half slumber. Next to him, Catherine slept bundled in a small heap beneath the layers of white muslin, so that all he could see was the gold tassel and the top of her white nightcap. He grimaced when the image of what he had done with her returned to him.

Last night he had been beyond anger. Beyond pain. The wine he had drunk had seen to that. He had taken it out on this girl whom he had seen only twice in his life, and to whom now, he was forever bound. All of the weeks of confusion and defeat had reached a violent crescendo in her small, chaste body. He was certain that he had hurt her. He had not been gentle, as if he could force the memory and the pain of Diane further back in his mind, with each violent jabbing thrust. When it was over, he had rolled away, and turned a deaf ear to her sobbing. He hadn’t the strength to deal with her anguish, as well as his own.

The sounds outside drew Henri out of bed. He moved to a small window and turned the brass handle. It opened onto the courtyard. Two horses, yet without riders, were saddled and packed. A group of guards mounted on royal stallions waited nearby in the early morning mist. Henri shook his head trying desperately to ward off the effects of the wine that he had drunk. As he gazed out of the opened window he finally saw Hélène, Diane’s maid, emerge from the villa in a traveling cloak and hood. After another moment, Diane followed.

Henri put a hand to his forehead and brushed back a dark curl. She was leaving Court without even saying good-bye. Once again he felt utterly helpless. All of his life he had been helpless; a puppet.

“He says, raise your leg, little puppet,” he whispered. “And so I do. . .I always do. . .”

He was first a marionette for his father, and now for his country. This marriage to the little Florentine girl, which he had just irrevocably consummated with a degrading performance for his father and the Pope, was the most dramatic example of his position. For reasons to which he was not privileged, he had been married to a merchant’s daughter and told nothing more than that he must do it for France.

More than pain now, he felt bitter rage. It was rage at a system that he was not permitted to understand, and yet that had the power to keep him from the only happiness he had ever known. He watched in silence as Diane, dressed in a black velvet gown, cloak and hood, was helped onto her horse by one of the equerries. Henri extended his hand past the glass, and with his finger traced the outline of her body, as she took the leather reins and stroked the horse’s dark mane. Then, following the lead of the King’s guard, she clicked her heels, and followed the guides out of Marseilles, and out of Henri’s life.

A
NNE D’
H
EILLY BURST
through the open doors to the King’s council chamber and entered the inner sanctum without bothering to knock. Her shoes, the latest style from Venice, with small cork soles and covered in blue velvet, echoed beneath the matching blue gown, as she swept across the tiled floor toward the long mahogany table. It was the
conseil privé;
the larger gathering of nobles on matters of state, and so the room was packed full of the King’s advisors. Everyone was there but Chancellor Duprat, who had died the previous year following a long illness.

The King’s private chamber at Saint Germain-en-Laye was vast, with high arched ceilings, newly frescoed in pastel shades. On the walls were large, gold-scalloped wall sconces and long mirrors between a series of small paned windows. Golden light poured through them, across the room on one side, leaving the other side in the shadows. Seeing Anne, the King rose from the carved high-back chair at the head of the table.

“What is it,
mon amour
?” he asked.

The other men of the council thrust back their chairs and stood in deference to the woman now elevated to Duchesse d’Etampes. The King had recently arranged for the marriage of his
favourite
to a noble but impoverished courtier. He then gave them the Duchy of Etampes as a way of bestowing greater power and respect upon the woman who continued to share his life.

“It is that blasted husband you’ve given me!” she screeched. “He wants more money to keep quiet. Always more money! He has sent word that he cannot live on the stipend you pay him.”

A smile broke across François’ face, curling his mustache upward, as if to say,
is that all
? He came out from behind the table and took her hand.

“Well, gentlemen, as you can see, Our attentions are required elsewhere. The matter that we were discussing has been concluded, has it not?”

Chabot cleared his throat. Antoine du Bourg, the new Chancellor of France, sat back down and began to collect his papers. Anne de Montmorency was the only one who dared to raise his head in the direction of the King.

“Then we are to proceed?” he asked.

“Yes. Increase the troops to forty thousand but hold them as they are until after Christmas. Also, I wish word be sent to my sons at the camp that they are to be at Amboise for the holiday. It is time I see them again.”

“Are we at war then?” asked Anne in a careless sing-song tone as she rolled a large gold and ruby ring on her middle finger.

François chucked her beneath the chin with a single finger like a naughty child, and slipped his arm about her tightly corseted waist. “That is nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,
mon amour.
Come, we shall speak of your new husband and see what it will take to quiet him.”

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” Triboulet came rushing in through the open door in his wildly colored costume. “There is a band of reformers posting signs all around the village below us!”

The King turned his head and stared down at his jester, annoyed by the interruption. “What do you mean, they are posting signs?”

“Against the Church, Your Majesty. Condemning the hypocrisy and the greed of the Catholic Church! I’ve just come from town. I’ve seen them myself! There is a huge band of them and they are angry!”

François looked around at his collection of unmoving advisors, his eyes narrowing with anger. “Well! What are you all just sitting there for? Is this why I pay all of you, to sit and do nothing?”

“But Your Majesty said just last week, in the presence of the Queen of Navarre, that free expression was to be tolerated in France!”

“Free expression, not heresy, Monsieur du Bourg, was espoused in the presence of Our sister! Now do something! Do something at once!”

The King’s inconsistent religious policies were only one sign of his discontent. The year after his son’s marriage in Marseilles had been a difficult one for him. The second year marked a further series of disappointments. One by one, his carefully laid plans were falling down around him. The Pope had waited in France following the marriage of Henri and Catherine, in the hope of seeing his niece with child. François too had prayed for signs of conception, which would have solidified this misalliance; a union, highly unpopular with the Court and the French people. Finally, Pope Clement had returned to Rome without the news he sought. Within ten months of the marriage, he was dead. All of François’ hopes of the Italian provinces that he had been promised died with the Pontiff. No Genoa, no Pisa, and no Milan.

The new Pope, who had taken the name of Paul III, refused to honor the secret contract between the two men, terming it “clandestine.” He believed that it was not in Italy’s best interest to support such claims. The final blow to the King had come when the papacy ordered the return of the jeweled portion of Catherine’s dowry. The jewels were not Clement’s personal possessions, it was argued, but rather articles of the Holy See, and therefore had not been his to give.

The King of France had surrendered his pride and his son with that marriage, in the hope of regaining Milan. In return, he had gained an exceedingly unpopular daughter-in-law, who after nearly two years, still was not pregnant.

Exercising great determination, he had managed to look forward, nursing his wounds in hopes of a second powerful marital alliance. Philippe Chabot had just returned from England where he had proposed to Henry VIII a marriage between that King’s eldest daughter, Mary, with François’ third son, Charles. But that too had proved to be a phantom goal. Henry VIII would agree to such a match, now that he was married to Anne Boleyn and he had declared his daughter, Mary, by his previous Queen, a bastard on one condition. His requirement for such a marriage was that both the bride and groom agree to renounce all claim to the English throne. They must also acknowledge Anne Boleyn’s future children as the only rightful heirs.

When François found the conditions unsuitable, he issued a counterproposal suggesting Charles as the bridegroom of Boleyn’s infant daughter, Elizabeth. But that did not fair better. Henry VIII would agree to that proposal only if François would persuade the new Pope to lift his excommunication.

In the silence, the Chancellor rose to his feet and called Christian de Nançay, Captain of the Guard. The two men exchanged words. The Captain then took two of the other guards and rushed from the King’s council chamber to handle the disturbance outside. Once they had gone, François put his face in his hands. Anne poised her hands on her hips.

“What are you going to do about that husband you’ve given me?” she whined.

François lowered his head as he stormed toward the door. “Oh, leave me alone, will you! I must think!”

After a moment of unbearable silence, Anne pointed her chin in the air, turned on her heels and went out into the corridor after him.

“Well, that is that,” Chabot sighed once the King and his mistress were gone. “It is to be war then.”

“There is really no other choice,” Bourg agreed. “With the new Pope in Rome so disagreeable, everything has changed.”

The Cardinal de Lorraine shook his head. “A war is the only way His Majesty will ever get back Milan now.”

There was a rumbling of voices from several of the other men at the table who echoed the sentiments of the Admiral. Montmorency was not among them.

“Such conjecture is vastly premature, Chabot,” the Grand Master huffed. “And you serve no purpose by second-guessing the will of the King.”

“If his foreign policy is as tenuous as his stand on religion,” Bourg shook his head, “then may the good Lord help us all!”

Montmorency searched each of their faces. Such fierce competition among them and yet all of it masked by Machiavellian civility. They really were so pitiful. After a moment, he gathered up his papers, stood, and looked back across the council table.

“Seems such a shame that it has all come apart like this,” he said with a sneer.

Chabot rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Only that so strategic a bargaining chit as His Majesty’s second son should be wasted upon a merchant’s daughter. . .and a barren one at that.” Montmorency strode across the room and then turned back around once he had reached the door. “His Majesty is bound to be furious when he remembers who it was that encouraged such a travesty. And you certainly cannot say you were not warned.”

D
IANE SAT NEAR
the fire but her eyes were directed at the window where fresh drops of rain fell gently past the long sheet of glass. Jacques de Montgommery sat at a small table at the other end of the room. He was playing chess with Françoise, Diane’s eldest daughter. Hélène sat in a third seat watching as Montgommery lost.

“Maman! Maman!”
Louise, Diane’s younger daughter, ran into the room and nearly tripped over a hassock by the door. “Hélène has had news from Court! May I read it? Oh, please may I?”

Diane looked up as though she had been brought back from a deep sleep. Louise, who was nearly thirteen, bounced into the room and twirled about with the letter in her hand. Hélène stiffened. When Louise did not surrender the letter, Diane stood and walked toward her daughter.

“Now, now. Give that to Hélène. Letters are a private matter,” Diane reproached.

The girl looked up at her mother and began to giggle. Louise was her willful child. She was the mirror image of Louis. She had his dark, thick rings of hair and her coal-black eyes were framed by thick straight brows. She also had his temperament. After a moment, Diane grew stern so that Louise reluctantly surrendered the letter to her mother’s maid.

“Oh, do read it aloud. Please!” Louise whined. She fell onto the floor and propped her elbows on Hélène’s knees.

“Do get up, you spoiled thing!” her sister scolded, but Louise stayed put beneath the game table and did not move her arms from Hélène’s lap. Everyone was silent as she read the single page of parchment to herself. Diane sat down in a smaller red velvet chair near the table and put an affectionate hand on Montgommery’s shoulder.

“News from Monsieur de Saint-André?” she asked. Jacques took her hand from his shoulder and kissed it.

“Yes, Madame.”

“He is well?”

“Yes, though he says he has lost weight at the camp. He explains it by saying that the food is no more enticing than the company.” She smiled as she read the line.

“And the Prince,” Diane continued. “Is he also well?”

“He does not say, Madame. Only that he will be accompanying His Highness home from camp. They have been called home to Amboise by His Majesty for Christmas.”

Hélène folded the letter and placed it on the table.

“Does he have other news?” Diane dared to venture further.

“He does ask when we shall be returning to Court.”

To this Jacques turned around in his chair. He lifted a hand and ran his long fingers gracefully through his smooth, pointed beard.

“Well, my dear, it is a good question,” he said. “Will you return? You know I must myself return to service before the tenth, and it would be so splendid if we could go together.”

Diane stood and walked back toward one of the windows which ran the entire length from the parqueted floor to the vaulted ceiling. She ran her hand along the frame.

“I wonder if it will ever stop raining. Everything is so gray this time of year.”

Jacques strode toward her and encircled her with his arms.

“What do you say,
ma chère
?” he pushed. “Will you return with me? It is time for you to get back for more than just one of your brief visits anyway.”

Diane turned and saw Hélène perched pensively on the edge of her chair. Her daughters were both gazing up at her expectantly, knowing the honor that it would be for the entire family.

“I do not want to leave them at Christmas.”

“Oh, nonsense. They are nearly grown women. Besides, they will be going back to the convent after the New Year and you will be left alone in this big, ugly old place.”

Diane gazed around the large room. The paint on the ceiling was cracked. The tapestries were shredded. The roof leaked and even with the fires fully stoked, it was a dark and drafty old keep. She thought of Court and the comforts there in winter. She thought of her own splendidly decorated apartments; the parties and the banquets. It had been over a year since she had any occasion to wear anything formal. She had chosen not even to have any new headdresses or gowns made since last season. In the two years since Henri’s wedding, she had returned to Court only once. It had been last summer when she knew, through Jacques de Montgommery, that Henri was safely away at military camp.

She had gone to Fontainebleau for only two weeks to attend a celebration of His Majesty’s birthday. The invitation had been personally written by the King. The image of François, and the memory of his persistent overtures, shot through her mind. It wound around to memories of Anne d’Heilly and her vicious taunting. The images terminated with the memory of Henri. The kiss they had shared in Cauterets. The forbidden night. The wedding in Marseilles. The pain she had caused. The disappointment. The sadness.